


when your smile fades (you look like God)

by frankie_31



Series: Prompts [5]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-15
Updated: 2019-07-15
Packaged: 2020-06-28 13:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19813465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankie_31/pseuds/frankie_31
Summary: We are terrible for each other, and, yes, we are a disaster. But tell me your heart doesn’t race for a hurricane or a burning building. I’d rather die terrified than live forever. (Mistakes aren’t always regrets.)





	when your smile fades (you look like God)

**Author's Note:**

> Fic request from forever-always on tumblr.

Quentin doesn’t get to check himself in this time.

The bandages on his wrists are starting to get dingy with dust and he rubs a thumb over where the tape is curling up while he waits for the nurse to check over his bag. 

They leave his books, thankfully, but take his lighter and hoodie and fingernail clippers and pencil. 

The attendant takes his photo and he winces as he visualizes his bloodshot eyes and purple bags. And the stitches on his chin from where he’d cracked his face on the way down as he fainted from blood loss. 

He closes his eyes against the memory of watching himself in the mirror, shocked that he’d actually done it. The flash goes off and he blinks away all of it. 

He’s locked into a small room with a bed and not much else. There’s no sheet or blanket. The attendant assured him it won’t be permanent as long as he can follow the rules. 

At a loss, he lays on the bed and stares at the holes in the ceiling. He can follow the rules. 

It’s not quiet in the building but it’s not as hectic as he had pictured. He hears voices when people walk by and the hum of a heater in the wall. It smells like bleach. 

He worries the tape on his wrist a little more. It will be useless soon and he’ll need a new wrapping. 

He falls asleep. 

Food is brought to him the first two days. It’s not terrible. He gets things he can eat with his hands and the attendant makes sure she collects every piece of cardboard or plastic that was on his tray when he’s done. 

After a few days, he’s moved.

“You’ll be in B-block,” his attendant, Josie, tells him. She has sweet, hound dog eyes and a bad perm. “In with the boys. You’ll be sharing with Eliot.”

“Oh,” Quentin says, not really sure why it matters. 

“Eliot’s a good boy,” she says and he thinks she would say that about anyone. “Just a little much.”

Eliot isn’t there when enters. He puts his meager possessions in his little side table and turns back to Josie. She smiles and beckons him to follow. 

“Garden time is from one to four—after lunch and before dinner. But only Thursday through Sunday. TV room is open all day and some people spend the nights on the chairs. You’re expected to sleep in your room for awhile,” Josie tells him and leads him through the halls.

“Okay,” Quentin says.

“Eliot’s in group right now but they’ll be out soon for lunch,” she says and points to an ajar door in the TV room. “Smoking is out there but you have to leave the door open if you go out.” 

Quentin wishes desperately that he had a cigarette and Josie must see something on his face because she makes a ‘shhh’ motion and leads him out the smoking door. It leads to an enclosed porch where one woman is sprawled on a lounge chair. Josie pulls a pack from her pocket and offers a cigarette to Quentin. 

He wants to smile at her but can’t make his mouth move enough. 

He says thanks instead. 

The woman on the chair turns to smile at him lazily and Quentin spots the joint in her hand. 

“Medicinal,” the woman says in explanation around a puff of smoke and Josie laughs. “I’m Margo.”

“Here,” Josie says and she lights his cigarette for him. “I’m gonna leave you to it. Lunch is in twenty minutes.”

He thanks her again and sits on the nearest chair. It’s not a nice brand of cigarettes but it’s also the first he’s had in a few days. 

He relishes it. 

“What’s your name?”

“Coldwater. Quentin Coldwater,” he says in a croak and it’s the most syllables he’s strung together in days. 

“Well, Coldwater, welcome to the show,” Margo says and tilts her head like a jungle cat. “It’s fucking tits around here.”

He doesn’t know what to say so he doesn’t say anything. 

“What are you in for? I spy two white bandages,” she says into the quiet and he flicks a glance towards her. She’s staring off the porch into what must be the garden. She turns back to him and offers a strangely sweet smile. “We can trade. Your scars for mine.”

“Um,” Quentin starts and he sucks on his cigarette. “I tried to kill myself.”

“Been there,” Margo says and rolls on her side to face him. Her legs are crossed at the knee and she hugs her hands to her chest, takes another hit. 

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Not this time,” she says and flicks her ash on the floor nonchalantly. “This time me and Papa Hanson got into a fight. He won.”

“I’m sorry,” Quentin says and she smiles at him again. 

“You don’t give a shit,” she laughs. “But props for politeness. What a weird phrase. Props. What the fuck does that mean?”

“It’s etymology trails back to—uh—proper respect. Proper recognition,” he trails off and sticks the cigarette in his mouth to silence himself.

“Okay, Coldwater. I see you. Little Wikipedia-G&T-kid- brain, huh? Grew up and the world didn’t bend over for you anymore. Life doesn’t put stickers on your paper when you’re grown,” she says, not unkindly, but her smile is all teeth.

He looks down, doesn’t say anything and she turns back to look out at the garden. 

“He won’t win next time,” she says into the quiet, obviously not speaking to Quentin. “Everything’s coming up Margo.”

***

Eliot is...tall. And wan. And he has sleepy, sultry eyes and a tangle of wild hair and a mean-looking twist to his mouth and Quentin can’t stop looking at him. 

Eliot kisses the crown of Margo’s head and pulls her into the vee of his legs at the lunch table, feeds her like she’s a baby. 

She takes two bites, but not much more, and drinks the water the med-nurse puts in front of her. 

“C’mon, Miss Margo,” Eliot chides in a deep, river-over-rocks voice. “Eat for daddy.”

Quentin tries not to watch them and fails. 

“Not hungry, El,” she sighs and her gaze drifts over to Quentin. “At least not for food.”

“No boys until you’ve eaten at least five hundred calories,” he volleys back and he glances over at Quentin. “Are you my roommate?”

Quentin blanks under their sudden, shared gaze and stutters until Margo cuts him off. 

“Who cares? I’m tired,” she says and pulls Eliot’s arm around her. 

“I am,” Quentin says, too late. 

“Are what?”

“Your roommate,” he says and Margo closes her eyes and sighs heavily. 

“His name is Quentin,” she says and Eliot leans his chin on her head and takes a bite of food. 

“It is,” Quentin says and kicks himself. He’s a moron. 

“Hello, Quentin. I hope you don’t snore,” Eliot says and Quentin shrugs. 

“I don’t think I do,” he says and tucks his hair behind his ear, curls over his tray. 

Eliot and Margo scoff and when he looks up they’re both smiling at him. 

“You’re really cute,” Eliot says and the mean mouth curl is back. “I could spread you on a cracker.”

Margo laughs at that and Quentin doesn’t really get what he means until later when Eliot’s got his thighs around his ears and he’s sucking Quentin down like the world is ending. 

“Fuck,” he gasps and Eliot reaches up to stick two fingers in his mouth. He laps between them, squirming on his rough sheets and Eliot makes a happy noise.

Eliot pulls down on his jaw, pries his mouth open and Quentin comes with a high-pitched keen. Eliot stands, tousling his hair in the moonlight. 

“Want me too—,” Quentin breaks off, trying to catch his breath. “Want me to do you?”

“Aw,” Eliot coos. “You are really cute. But I’m going to pass. You can owe me though.”

Quentin watches Eliot lay in his own bed, pulling the covers up to his chin and laying as still as a doll. His dark hair is stark against the pillowcase and Quentin can see the sharp lanes of his aristocratic face. 

He falls asleep staring at the smudge of lashes on Eliot’s cheekbones. 

***

Margo is back on the porch, glaring out into the morning fog. She doesn’t even glance at him when he joins her on the porch. He sits on a swinging bench and blinks wearily.

“Hi,” he says eventually and she flinches minutely. “Good morning.”

“Do you need something?”

“Be sweet, Bambi-girl,” Eliot says suddenly from the doorway and he pushes Quentin over on the bench. “We like Quentin.”

Margo scoffs but Quentin can see her relax. 

“How’s day two of summer fun camp going, buddy?”

Quentin can’t temp down the smile Eliot draws out of him. He presses his hands between his knees and resolutely stares out into the garden. 

“That bad, huh? And I thought I might have made it a good first day,” Eliot says, reaching over to scratch his fingers through Quentin’s hair. 

“You and your new boys,” Margo says acidically from her chair. 

“Ignore her,” Eliot says. “It’s visiting day. So, she’s getting herself all riled up. Hey, good luck. Maybe you’ll kill him today.”

“God willing,” Margo says and she jabs a cigarette into her mouth. 

“Kill who?”

“Her father,” Eliot drawls and pulls his own pack from the breast pocket of his silk robe. His hair is an ornery cloud around his head. “They take turns. Our Margo is up to bat this time.”

“I’m not playing,” she says, sitting forward and hunching over her knees. “I’m ready.”

“Why do you see him if you hate him? Why does he see you for that matter?”

“You wouldn’t get it,” she bites out and Eliot reaches over and turns Quentin’s head to face him. 

Eliot takes his cigarette between his fore and middle finger and, one hand gripping Quentin’s chin, slips the butt of the cigarette into Quentin’s mouth. Quentin’s mind blanks and he inhales robotically. Eliot’s mouth curves back into that mean smile and he moves his cigarette away to press an open kiss to Quentin’s mouth. Smoke curls out from the corners of their mouth and Eliot’s tongue licks softly into Quentin’s mouth.

Eliot pulls away slowly, eyes fluttering open and lips parted. Quentin follows him, hypnotized and frenzied. 

“You’re hurt,” Eliot says gently and Quentin shakes his head, tries to make sense of his words. 

“What?” ,he asks intelligently.

Wordlessly, Eliot points his finger at Quentin’s knee. A small clump of ash had fallen to his knee and burned a little hole in his pants. Eliot rubs a finger over the hole and then Quentin feels the burn. 

He leans in to kiss Eliot again. And again. And again.


End file.
